


part of the journey is the end

by parttimeroses



Series: be here, so I may stand [2]
Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Alternate Universe - Basketball, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2020-03-05 17:53:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18833737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parttimeroses/pseuds/parttimeroses
Summary: two and a half years of absence fade in an instant. and michael isn't quite sure how she's still standing.





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

> I think this is going to be in four parts. I'm still working on it. I might be too ambitious. Also I work about 50 hours a week and I have very limited time to work on things, so I'm sorry if updates are... slow.
> 
> Also, screw perfect accuracy. It's my AU, I do what I want! I don't remember how basketball works! It's been so many years since I've paid attention! All I have are archive games and my tears about Indiana!

  
Michael can recall, with a fondness, that there was something about the light that day. The way it streamed in through the window in the hotel lobby, casting the tiles in gold. Everyone from the west was up and bustling for early breakfast an hour before the others, so she snuck out of their shared room to get her first cup of coffee, save a table for when Philippa made the trek down to join her. She had read her emails, scrolled through twitter, and then back, focusing in on her phone until the noise level snapped her out of the trance. 

The crew from the northeast caught her attention, jostling in line for the omelet station, snickering at each other’s jokes. The Sun and Bruins all stars, old college teammates turned pro-rivals, hip checking in jest. 

She almost jumped when the chair across from her started to drag across the floor, “Is this seat taken?” 

Michael squinted back up, keeping her voice flat, though she can't hide the smile. “Yes.” 

Philippa had been silhouetted by sunlight, smiling tired but warm. She kept her hair in a loose braid, she tapped her fingers on the back of the chair, and gave Michael this expression of mock exasperation. 

“Oh, how I hope you’re in the same mood for media later.”

“Me too.” Michael took a sip from her mug, coffee barely hot. 

“You ate already?”

She shook her head, “No, I was waiting for you.”

“You could have woken me.”

Michael half-shrugged in reply, got out of her seat before Philippa could get another word in, motioning over to the buffet layout. “Let’s go see what’s what.”

  
They ate in silence, at first. Philippa kept fidgeting in her seat, looking up at her, trying to catch her attention. They had been stuck in a cab, in traffic, for an hour the night before, and the topic turned to coaching once more. 

“I can tell it’s eating away at you.” Michael skewered a piece of Canadian bacon onto her fork, holding it midway to her mouth for a moment. 

“You think you’re so funny.” Philippa teased, toeing at her foot under the table, but Michael had tucked her legs away at the slightest touch. 

“You’re the one that keeps saying to ‘forge a new path’.”

“Doesn’t there have to be an end goal?” Michael hid her flinch badly and Philippa took it in stride, as always, graceful and ever quick to patience. “Teaching is what grows the sport, Michael. It’s _necessary_.”

Michael had felt that small voice well up inside her then, that childish defiance, that ‘ _then, someone else can do it_ ’.

“I suppose so.” She took a bite, glanced out the window to avoid Philippa’s face.

“Why do you insist on being contrary?” 

Michael cleared her throat, looked back, past her and swept over the room to find that no one was paying them any mind.

“…You’re too young to retire.”

“Who have you been listening to? Kat?”

“No one. Philippa-”

“I won’t last twenty years in the league. My shoulder flexion gets worse every season.”

“This isn’t about proving a point, this is-” 

_Don’t leave me_ , Michael opened her mouth but the words didn’t come out. She winced, but refused to duck away from it. _I can’t do this without you._

She twisted her face and sighed, gestured at a loss. “You’re not even forty.”

“ _Michael_ , I’m thirty eight. I’m halfway through the door already.” 

“Please, let’s not… Shoot around is in half and hour.”

“You’ll tell me, at some point, One?” Philippa crooked her head, and Michael gave her affirmation. 

But Michael always had a talent for keeping the truth to herself.  
  


 

///

 

  
The flight out of Shanghai almost gets grounded due to inclement weather. 

Michael’s grip leaves an imprint on the armrest in the lounge once boarding is announced. She lugs her barely small enough bag over her shoulder and heads toward the gate with the rest of business class. 

It’s been misting all morning, raining on and off for the past two days. The glass of the floor to ceiling windows glint when the sun peeks through the overcast sky.

She’s spent the past week coordinating meetings with sponsors, training, and reconciling the semi-final loss. No trophy to take with her this year, just the return of ambition, for the start of another season, in another league. And cutting it a little too late on booking the flight back.

And in eighteen hours she’ll return to Boston, not at all ready for media day, for the rookies and newly traded players. Or for the press conferences. Maybe she can beg off jet lag and switch with Joann.    
  


Up in the air, she dozes off in shifts, tosses and turns and barely dreams. But when she does, it’s the same thing it always is. 

And it hurts her, still. Duller now, over the length of time. 

It’s the same thing she’s always wanted, within reach, and never close enough to force change. 

She thinks about centrifuges, being pushed to the opposite end of what she wants, trying to move her hand against the well of gravity.  
  


 

It’s hard to remember deadlines and appointments when she lands in Toronto, squinting at the tarmac, rummaging her bag for some sunglasses to hide the dark under her eyes. The flight to Boston leaves in an hour, and there are two messages in her voicemail that she doesn’t feel like getting to yet. 

And then Keyla calls her.

  
“They’re rolling out new uniforms. Pretty sweet, huh?”

“I didn’t get the memo.” Michael secures her phone between her ear and her shoulder, “What time is everything starting again?” 

“Nine tomorrow.” Keyla sounds confused and it throws her off. 

“Out with it, Kay.”

“What? I didn’t say anything.” 

“You’re doing that thing again, where-”

“I’m not,” Keyla sighs and huffs and gives in. “Michael, you’re out of the loop.”

“Oh, it’s _my_ fault now.” She grumbles, turning to the board of departures, blinking at her from above.

She backs up until she’s at the best angle to browse for her flight.

“I’ll forgive that tone, cause you’re tired.”

“What else then?”

“Pike says there are announcements coming. About staffing changes-” 

“I don’t want to think about any more corn-fed country assistant coaches preaching the pick-and-roll.” Michael interrupts, staring at the high ceiling that arches along the terminal. “Forgive me, I’m tired. I’m hanging up now.”

“Get home and sleep, Michael. See you later.”  
  


The cab ride is quick, and once she’s dropped off, she balances both of her bags precariously against her hip as she heads up the steps, keys jingling in her pocket.

Her apartment is cold, blinds half open since the end of last season, just like she left them. She doesn’t bother with laundry or turning the lights on. Michael pours herself a glass of water, downs it in one go, and shuffles to her bedroom. The only thing she manages to do is plug her phone into a charger and change into sweats.  

  
She sleeps for ten hours, dreaming in the same space. 

She keeps rewriting the time, slipping under the film. 

If she had been let to play through the end of the season. Been there to earn the championship, been there to hand the trophy to Philippa, been there _at all_. 

If they went to Spain together a little earlier, stayed a little longer. No Turkey, no Italy, just their little apartment in Valencia, waking up at five every morning to run on the beach. 

If she had opened her mouth, and let the words out, _for once_.  
  


Michael wakes at five, to her phone alarm blaring and the barest sign of the sun creeping up past the horizon. She starts with yoga, briefly, having slept so contained and stiff on the plane that her joints continue to ache. She puts on coffee, takes a steaming hot shower, and makes a light breakfast. 

And almost curses herself for forgetting to pick out dress clothes for media day. 

She throws on slacks and a dress shirt, pouring some coffee into a thermos to take with her. She puts on a pair of gym sneakers, having packed her dress flats into her duffle, hopping out the door as she adjusts the hem of her pants. 

Tilly starts texting her once she turns the corner of the block, and the constant ping of a new message doesn’t stop until Michael puts her phone on silent while waiting at a red light. She cranks up her music, getting into the beat, coasting down the 93 in the fast lane, trying to avoid traffic.  
  


 

///  
  


 

There was better alcohol at this party, Michael watched her drink most of her second glass, cozy in the middle of the couch, hogging all that real estate for herself. 

“Planning on slowing down anytime soon, champ?” Michael ribbed, sat next to her on the cushions with a smirk on her face. 

_“I’m_ not driving tonight.” Philippa laughed, scooted closer, into Michael’s space, feet up on the coffee table like she was at home. Michael laughed too, because these moods were rare and she’d take them when she could. She ducked her head and looked dead ahead, at the feeling of Philippa’s hand slipping under her elbow, smoothing down the inside of her forearm, just to take her hand. 

Philippa’s warm side leaning into hers. 

And she felt like she was swimming, blamed it on the alcohol, set her own glass down on the table. 

“Spit it out, huh?” She mumbled, entranced by the way Philippa was learning the shape of her hand, tracing the length of Michael’s fingers with her own. 

“I wouldn’t be mad, you know.”

Michael remembers herself laughing at that, wondering what she was diving into now.

“ _Okay_.”

“We did well, right?”

“Yeah, P. Clean sweep.”

“How many is that?”

“A few, don’t worry about it.”

Philippa laughed at that, turning toward Michael and resting her forehead against the taller woman’s shoulder. Michael stiffened a little, surrounded by people in the room, yet, somehow, they were alone. 

 

 

///  
  


 

 

Michael heads down the hall once she reaches the practice facility, gets caught up in an interview before she knows it. The questions are the typical fare and her lines are so smooth, they sound rehearsed. 

She runs through it with local and team media before excusing herself with a smile, mentioning the training staff at the other end of the hall. 

Once the media is out of sight, she slows to a stroll, to rekindle that sense of familiarity after an offseason that felt like longer. 

It’s early enough that the WNBA media people are still setting up on the practice court, and she can slip by that group, take a shortcut to the locker room. She’s checking her phone, walking slow, when she sees a woman at the other end, far enough for Michael to not be sure if she recognizes her. The woman pauses in the turn of the hall, smoothing her blazer down, shoulders falling into place before she’s on the move again. There’s something familiar in the way she walks, like a fleeting memory.

Michael stops, doing a double-take at the now empty air, sliding her phone back in her pocket. She feels a pang of nervousness, a little wary taking her next steps, but she pushes through the feeling.  
  


 

///  
  


 

She had gone in early, too full of nervous energy to sleep or concentrate on a workout. Just to shoot threes, just to let off some steam. 

This would be the year, Michael was sure. There was something about olympic years that made everyone anxious to work harder, to prepare. 

“It isn’t even light out, One.”

“Ha ha.” 

“Not even a ‘Good morning, Philippa’?” 

“Do you think you deserve it?” Michael drained the three. 

“First practice back and we’re starting with that, huh?” Philippa had given her a wry smile, moved to catch the rebound and send over a hard chest pass that stung Michael’s hands when she caught it.  

Michael faltered this time, ball bouncing off the rim and out toward the stands. Philippa caught up, dribbled to the corner and shot a three for herself. 

“You could just tell me.” 

“What’s there to talk about?”

“I don’t know.” They both went through the motions, settling into a good shooting rhythm, somehow making it easier. “Training camp went well. So did Spain. What are you nervous about?”  

“The math.”

“Math?” Philippa laughs. 

“Everything adds up, somehow.” Michael shrugs a shoulder, anticipating the next pass.

 

 

///

 

  
The noise from the locker room is the first thing to hit her, long before she reaches the door. She can hear Sylvia’s voice, singing off key to Lady Gaga. Joann’s melody of a laugh, when Keyla chimes in. 

Michael’s smiling when she opens the door, greeted with a chorus of ‘hello’s and her teammates coming over to greet her. 

“New digs, huh?” Michael admires the jersey, draped over the chair in front of her locker cubby. A sleek silver trim, silver number and name, on navy blue and black. The wave pattern is asymmetrical, outlined in black, climbing diagonal from hip to opposite shoulder. 

“Away jerseys aren’t as flashy.” Nhan chimes in, fussing with the tape on her ankle. 

“They’re not too… bad.” Michael falters, watching the locker room door open as Pike walks in, with this apologetic yet hopeful expression on his face, directed solely at Michael, who only has the opportunity to raise an eyebrow before he starts. 

He stands in the middle of the room and clears his throat, for everyone’s attention. 

“Good morning, everyone.” 

Tilly choruses a ‘good morning, coach’, getting an elbow from Airiam. Chris shakes his head and continues.

“As you know, we’re rolling out new jerseys. That’s the first shoot of the day, we’ll do interviews, then staff announcements. And after that, a light shoot around.” 

Michael slips on her knee socks, finds her practice sneakers, and pretends that she’s not worried.  
  


 

///

 

After the Olympics ended that year, they landed in Dallas and the planned layover extended from one and a half to four hours as the day went on. Michael felt delirious, part bone tired, part anticipating the next move, crawling out of her skin even with a gold medal in her carry on. Their teammates had been on the same flight, dispersed to their own franchises on different sides of the country before the tornado warnings took effect. 

And then it was just her and Philippa, walking around the terminal, desperate to keep moving even if there was nothing to do. 

Then the four hours turned to seven and they wound up sitting on the carpet, in the middle of the gate, propped against each other like bookends. Willpower alone was keeping Michael’s eyes open, going on 10 pm, contemplating getting a rental car and heading to a hotel for the night. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired in my life.” Michael groaned, adjusting her legs, leaning back against Philippa. And they both started laughing. 

Playoffs started in two weeks and they really pushed to earn their spot this year, fourth and last in the west. This was just the beginning.

“It’s non-stop from here, huh?”

“Unlike the flight.” 

Philippa’s frame shook against hers, laughing harder, and they both lost it then. Michael wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, tilting her head back to rest against Philippa’s for a minute.

“God, I hope we get a day to recover, at least.” Michael caught her breath, felt Philippa shift behind her, nudging. She turned, caught Michael’s eye before resting her forehead to the curve of her shoulder. 

“Only if luck will have us.”

 

 

 ///

 

 

The photographers start with Michael, alone. And at the end of the shoot, the starters are together, trying to look serious but Sylvia won’t stop cracking up. 

Chris is talking to the press when they’re dismissed. And Michael wanders over with Keyla, hanging back to watch, resting an elbow on her shoulder while chatting with Joann on her other side. 

“As you know, we’ve been searching for an assistant coach since last season, and I am proud to announce that we have found someone.” He pauses, looking around again, “She has a reputation in this league for being unconventional, creative, and innovative. She needs no introduction.”

He looks around and waits for a second and Philippa walks in, through the open doors. 

She looks pristine, determined, searching the room for something that she can’t seem to find. 

“How did he get Georgiou to leave the west coast?” Keyla jokes, glancing over at Michael with a little worry, once she drops her arm and stands stock still. 

Her eyes follow her former teammate as she walks across the court. That same tall stride, the set of her shoulders. Michael has seen her thousands of times, the way she moves ingrained in her mind, even with the two and a half years of absence. Even with Philippa just a voice over the phone, a grainy video on skype once a month, an image in the back of her mind, of what she strives to live up to. 

And now, she’s here. 

With no warning.

 

 

///

 

 

Michael had hurried over to San Francisco right after she was drafted, eager to get some shots up in her new home court, on her first professional team. She got in a day early, before the training camp, put on her Oklahoma shorts, a ratty tank, and set out to test herself, without no audience. 

But someone else was out on the court, shooting free throws with no rebounder, in mechanical motion. 

People had told her, over the past week, how great Philippa Georgiou was. Her work ethic, her mindset, her years of experience. And there she was, in person, turning to look at Michael after she scuffed her sneakers on the hardcourt, loud enough to break her pattern. 

Philippa called to her, “I’ve been expecting you.”

Michael walked over, eyebrow raised. “I guess I can say the same.”

Philippa’s smile was warm, her handshake firm, and Michael matched it, not breaking eye contact. 

“Sherri speaks very highly of you. I’m glad you’re with this team.”

“You have an impressive reputation too.” 

This time Philippa crooked her head, nestled her basketball between her hip and elbow. Michael had told herself, that she would not be awed or intimidated. She would not be mesmerized or succumb to nerves. 

This wasn’t Cornwell, with the brash on-court attitude and loud presence. This was Georgiou, the restless workhorse, the levelheaded, the strategist. 

“I hope I can keep up.”

 

 

///

 

 

Philippa talks to the press, not fielding questions until the end of her short prepared speech. Her words go directly over Michael’s head, as she tries to hold in everything that’s been welling up in her chest since she moved to Boston. Michael stands behind the crowd and watches, wrings her hands behind her back. 

She faces what she thought she had lost, for good. 

And she doesn’t know how long she can keep her composure.

Keyla and Joann leave her be, thankfully. But there’s no such luck with Sylvia, who sidles up to her and lets all of her excited energy loose. 

“Can you _believe_ this?” Sylvia practically vibrates in place, and Airiam is by her side in a minute, to reign her in, if need be. “Oh my god, do you remember last year when I said ‘All we need is Georgiou, and we’d practically have a championship handed to us’?”

“Yes, Tilly.”

“Can you pinch me? I think I’m dreaming- Ow!” Airiam smacks her arm for good measure, and Michael can’t help the chuckle that leaves her mouth. 

“She’s had one too many lattes this morning. Sorry, Michael.” 

“It’s okay, this is the usual-” Michael starts, watching Ariam lead Sylvia away, fairly quickly, scolding as she glances behind her.

“Can I intrude for a moment?” And Philippa’s standing behind her, with a shy smile on her face. 

“Hello, One.”

And like that, the wall that Michael had been building up crumbles in one fell swoop. 

“It’s been a minute, Capt- _Coach_.” She can’t look at Philippa’s face, and she can’t help herself. 

“Yes, I suppose that’s going to take some time to get used to.” 

“Yes.” Michael’s voice cracks. And Philippa reaches, a ghost of a touch to her elbow. 

And there’s so much more to say, but now is not the time.

 

 


	2. ii a.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reflection, refraction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Oh boy, have I been struggling to do this. Part two was supposed to be a little different, but I have no idea how to move forward with it.)

 

“It wasn’t the defensive drills.”

Michael mis-stepped, startled that someone else was there with her. She launched a shot that found its way into the stands.

“What was that?”

Philippa had returned, twenty minutes after practice ended, dressed in the same jersey and back for more.

“And it wasn’t the screens. You had no problem yesterday.”

Michael took a deep breath to calm, huffed angrily instead. “What are you getting at, _Captain_?”

Philippa put her hands on her hips and examined her: Michael’s demeanor, the slumped shoulders.

“You could do better to read your matchup. But you’re not being outplayed.” Philippa took a minute to evaluate, circling around the rookie, keeping the same distance. “No, One.”

Michael blanked at that, stepped closer. “One?”

“ _One_.” Philippa tugged on her jersey, fanning lightly. And Michael rolled her eyes at herself, _of course_.

“Will you…” Michael cleared her throat. Her first steps were a shuffling. “Show me that last play, like with Williams?”

“How much time do you have?” Her tone was playful and Michael ribbed back, all to willing to engage.

 

 

///

 

  
She leaves the stadium exhausted, having done nothing but deal with photographers and reporters. It was somehow still more draining than a full day of practice.

And the day keeps passing, until she’s at her apartment, with no plans or intentions of changing that. Joann texts her about going out, then remedies it to ‘just dinner’. But Michael leaves it until the time to reply has passed and the sun has long since set to a blood orange staining the horizon.

Keyla tries, then Tilly, and Michael starts to wonder how long she can cling to the same excuse.

Philippa doesn’t contact her. She isn’t sure if she should feel hurt or relief.

She sits in her kitchen with the dim light of a living room lamp, watching the shadows shift between streetlights and cars.

 

  
It’s not long before habit takes her, as it often does, on days like this. She stands with a bare sense of purpose, sets water to boil to make herbal tea. She sits back down and waits for it to steep, and spies the second mug she took out of the cupboard. A specter of the past, stark on the counter, waiting to be dealt with.

She buries her head in her hands at the demand.

It took her a whole year to unlearn, after Philippa left Valencia and signed with a big club in Turkey. The muscle memory is still there, the morning rituals, the awareness. The imaginary weight of a hand on her shoulder, the gentle words by her ear in the evening.

She’s since stopped making so much coffee in the morning. Stopped lingering outside locker room doors. Stopped in her tracks and refused to go any further because each step was a reminder of what she could not have anymore.

Michael remembers the anger, the inordinate amount of hurt, roiling to a boil. Back then, she didn’t know why it had been so overwhelming. She wanted— still wants to, sometimes, stomp her feet, scream back at Philippa’s undeterred smiling face in the photo she keeps on her bookshelf. The seeming lack of reaction turning her petulant.

 _You don’t get to do this to me, not now. I have made my peace, I have worked for it_.

She finishes half of her tea, having let it grow cold. She goes right to bed and finds the gears of her mind are churning away too industriously to let her halt.

So she replays the day, again.

The displaced, solid presence of Philippa stood, greeting her with familiarity: ‘ _Hello, One._ ’

She squeezes her eyes shut as hard as she can, seeing stars blooming in and out of existence behind her eyelids.

_You’ll leave me again, won’t you?_

 

 

///

 

 

 

They had reached the point where Michael couldn’t count on her fingers anymore, the amount of times that Philippa asked her over; for dinner, for lunch, for any other reason.

And it had been strange, at first. Michael felt like an intruder in her modest apartment, seeing how settled in she was, the plants and books and mementos from abroad. Seeing the private parts of Philippa’s life, casually displayed, and she had been invited, maybe not to observe and examine, but she could not help herself. And partly, Michael thought Philippa knew that is exactly what she would do.

Michael brushed her fingertips over the lines of the counter, the shelves. Taking in the photos of Philippa and family, old teammates.She caught a glimpse at the gold medal from Athens, tucked in with MVP plaques on a bookshelf along the living room wall.

It turned into a chance at discovery; every time she dropped by, she would find something new, memorizing all the small parts of Philippa’s life to piece together. Michael hoped she would get the chance to step back and eventually see the big picture, to come to understand this woman who seemed so wiling to be familiar, but was so far removed at the same time.

“Find something interesting?” Philippa’s voice sounded a melody from the kitchen, her eyes trained on Michael’s back as she chopped tomatoes for the dish she was making.

“When were you in Budapest?”

“Two years ago.” Philippa hummed, “Kat wanted to see the Danube.”

“Oh? How was it?” Michael replaced the card and stepped toward the other room.

“It would have been a better trip, without all the ice.” Philippa draped a hand towel over her shoulder, turned to the cupboard in search. “Can you stir this, One?”

Michael had nodded and moved to watch the stove, sautéing onions and garlic, the apartment having filled with an appetizing smell.

“To stay on a relevant topic,” Philippa retrieved a small bowl and a measuring cup. “Where are you going when the season ends?”

“I hadn’t thought about it yet.”

“You should start, and soon.” Philippa moved alongside her, poured the tomatoes in the pan. “Detmer mentioned France, if you didn’t want to go to uncharted waters alone.”

“I don’t know if I want to deal with the cold.”

Philippa laughed, “You could always go to Portugal or nearby. Lounge in the sand when you’re not confining yourself to the weight room.”

“The beach does sound nice.”

She caught Philippa’s eye then, taking in the contours of her face, softening from a laugh to a warm smile.

 

 

///

 

 

 

Michael doesn’t move until her second alarm goes off, more insistent than the first. She grouses and takes her time, body weary to get ready for the day.

It isn’t until she’s halfway through her coffee, changing lanes to catch the last exit possible, the routine when she’s rushing. She spends the rest of the car ride reassembling her mental to-do list, making a plan to go into the first official practice with focus, with a goal so she doesn’t lose her head over the trivial.

She fumbles for her keys a second too long in the parking lot, and all that care and attention rushes out of her mind.

The practice court is bustling by the time she’s changed. Michael slides into a seat near half-court, slipping out of a shoe to put on her ankle sleeve.

She spies Keyla over to the left, talking animatedly with Joann, Coach Pike, and Philippa. The four of them laugh, and start to disperse to their duties, leaving Philippa on her own, fixing her hair into a messy bun, looking over the court the way Michael has seen her do countless times. She’s planning ahead, she knows what will happen next.

She feels herself grow so curious then, to see if she’s right or if Philippa’s changed so much that all Michael is left with is hopeless speculation. But the refusal outweighs the ache burrowed in her chest.

There’s a stillness then, as Philippa turns her way, catching her eye in the distance. She blinks back in surprise. And the moment doesn’t fade, but Michael does her best to shove it out of her thoughts when Tilly comes over, bouncing on her feet.

“How are there so many new kids?”

“The draft.” Michael looks up at her, deadpanning. At Tilly’s nervous laugh, she takes a different approach.

She nudges at Tilly’s side with her knuckles, before bending to retie her shoes, snapping the younger woman out of her anxiety for a second.

“No one’s going to take your spot.”

“Right.” Sylvia clasps her hands together nervously, and then stills them when she finds Michael watching her. “Right, okay.”

“It’s your turn to show them how it’s done, Syl.”

After a stretch and warm up, Philippa takes command of the veteran group, putting everyone through their paces with a gauntlet of agility drills. Being a favorite of Philippa’s routine in San Francisco, Michael took the time on stretching her legs with care, before the team was truly in too deep.

At the first gracious water break, twenty minutes in, Tilly half-jogs, half-limps over toward her, clutching her water bottle like a lifeline. “I was wondering why you took so long earlier. Holy crap.”

Michael smirks up at her, “Perks of knowing, I guess.”

“So. This… This is the usual?”

“Oh, _Tilly._ ” She pats the younger woman on the arm.

Tilly groans and sinks to the ground by Michael’s feet. “You should have warned me.”

“Just wait for the shooting drills.”

Tilly stutters, wide eyed, not able to get a word in before Philippa blows the whistle, “Time’s up. Four groups on the line, shuttle runs.”

 

 

  
///

 

 

 

They had won the championship for the first time in franchise history and Michael waited in the airport for their flight to Europe, alone.

She called, having sat in a business class lobby for the first hour, because there must have been some kind of hold up. But the ringing went on until she reached voicemail. Leaving a message, calm and confused.

“Philippa, where are you? The flight is in 45 minutes.”

Nothing, for half an hour.

And then, a brief text that left her bewildered, gaping at her phone and back up to the departures display.

10 minutes.

‘ _I signed a contract with Galatasaray._ ’

And then, she debated with herself, as the flight was called.

Michael boarded, and the plane left on schedule.

She didn’t remember much, stuck with her own rumination circling around her head for eleven long hours, crammed in economy plus with just enough leg room to slip into comfortable shoes. She couldn’t sleep, as she usually did. Her eyes had watered from the cold, or the dry air, trying to focus enough on the tiny screen in front of her, tracking speed, distance, time until she was to reach the destination.

  
She was so bogged down, the words almost tumbled out when Amanda called.

“Honey, you should be celebrating. You’ve wanted this for so long.”

And Michael felt like she was choking. Felt like telling the truth.

Settled, instead, on the easiest route. “Of course.”

“ _Michael,_ ” Amanda took a breath, the concern echoing all the way from the east coast. “I understand that you’re goal oriented, and that is a great thing to be. But the minutiae of your free throw shooting in _one_ game won’t matter in the long run.”

“Of course.” She had pulled herself to the surface to echo, for long enough to take a breath and play indignant.

“I know Sarek has pushed you to take every detail into account…”

Amanda kept on, and Michael, in that moment, let herself be comforted by the familiarity of her voice.

“…and I trust Philippa to dissuade you from this line of thinking.”

Michael stood stock still, barefoot at the kitchen door as the light faded beyond the water in muted colors.

 

 

  
///

 

 

  
When it’s over, at the final whistle to close out the day, Michael doesn’t hesitate to double over, resting her hands on her knees. Tilly makes it to the floor at her side, though she says nothing, working to catch her breath.

Philippa sees her then, unguarded. She runs a hand through her hair and catches Michael’s eye, just as intent. The words are there, even if they are so far away, Michael can feel it rushing up through her diaphragm until a pack of rookies passes between them and Philippa’s attention is diverted elsewhere.

Michael breathes out instead, slowly letting it go, being corralled to the locker room with Keyla at her heels.

 

“Come out to lunch with me.” Joann catches her once she’s cleaned up and changed, on the way out the door.

Michael stops, blinks up slowly from the texts she missed from her agent. She gestures vaguely, hoping the words will come to her, as her teammate frowns back. “I was going to-”

“Why is it so hard to get you to go anywhere anymore?” Jo crosses her arms and stands in her path.

It’s all out of concern and care, Michael knows. They’ve spent the past two years building a team, side by side, and nothing really gets past Joann’s quiet perceptiveness.

Michael shrugs a shoulder, makes a face at her against her will, pocketing her phone. She sighs, trying not to sound too hesitant.

“Yeah, alright.”

Jo breaks into a smile then, “Give me five minutes, okay?”

She nods and goes to wait outside the locker room door, glancing at her email until she sees Philippa.

“Michael,” Philippa smiles, moving to reach for her and masking it at the last second, turning the practice clipboard around in her hands. “Can we talk?”

“Yes, I-”

The door next to them opens and Joann looks surprised to be interrupting. “Oh, sorry.”

“No, it’s alright.” Philippa nods politely, “Later, One?”

It’s at the nickname that she falters, her resolve to hold off on any sort of reconciliation crumbles. “Later.”

Michael watches her walk away.

 

 

  
///

 

 

 

All of her hadn’t wanted to go back.

Keyla sat at her left, shoulder pressed insistently to hers and Joann settled in on her right, absorbed in her tablet, steady and solid. Sitting in the middle, the very middle of the center row of the flight to California, Michael thought of caged animals, things that prowled and lashed.

Things that were sharp and careless.

Something roared up in her chest, but it wasn’t bravery or vigor. Her hands had been restless, her spine locked tight like a vice. She shut her eyes, nails digging into her palms.

She had seen the stadium, the two championship banners in the rafters, the retired numbers in her memory. The number 19, hanging high and bright as the sun.

And the moment they had arrived, the moment they moved file out, she couldn’t hear anything, could barely see anything, having it all turned to static. Having to stomach the emotion threatening to tear her apart.

Michael couldn’t hope. There wasn’t a time and place for it anymore.

And even though she knew, _she knew_ , she would have to come back and face all the familiarity again, it was another question of if she could tame it to her will.

 

Later, Michael didn’t know how to find the right words to say during the post game interview. Didn’t know how to keep the media training from slipping out of her grasp. She stood, breathless, with her hands on her hips and a towel around her shoulders.

The footage, somewhere, with her head hunched, her expression blank.

The post game interviewer pulled her aside and asked about the fourth quarter. She only mumbled about her performance being off.

_And what’s it like, being back?_

She looks up and sees the banner, Philippa Georgiou, 19.

“Great.” She didn’t try to smile, thoughts flooding her head, new responses that she wouldn’t hold back if they gave her a second longer.

They asked about Philippa then. Michael dug her nails into the first reason she could find to leave.

She didn’t have a recollection of team dinner, or the bus ride back.

She felt the full scope of the loss after she locked the door, finally alone in her hotel room.

She sank to the floor at the foot of the hotel bed and cried, for the first time, about all of it. The thing was, the worst of it was, there was no stopping. She wanted to rip things, at the stitching. She wanted to let her blood boil, let the feeling run its course, leave her exhausted but finished.

Michael knew, even then, that there would be no finality to this in her own mind.

It was well past midnight before she crawled up into bed, eyes red and painfully dry.

It was almost two in the morning before she could hear Philippa’s voice in the back of her mind.

‘ _Be patient, One. The best thing you can do isn’t to push harder- be kind to yourself_.’

 

 

 

///

 

 

 

She picks at her food, knowing without looking up, that her teammate is frowning at her.

“This really isn’t like you.” Joann’s gaze is heavy on her, between bites of chicken. They’re both surprised when Michael starts to grumble.

“What isn’t?” Michael asks, just to be contrary, because having a conversation about her problems is the least of what she wants right now.

“Why don’t you just talk about it, Burnham?” Jo crook’s her head, frowns with concern. “You can’t keep to yourself forever.”

“It’s a little more complicated than that.” She stabs at the rice on her plate.

“Try me.” Jo pauses. “If you don’t start talking, _I_ will.”  

Michael starts off hushed, staring out the window. “I don’t know what to do, Jo. I feel very young, again.”

“You don’t have to know what to do all the time.”

“There are expectations.”

“Whose?”

“My own, mostly. I-” Jo puts a hand on her forearm to stop her.

“You’re not infallible.” She pauses, “You can make mistakes. Just because you’re the captain doesn’t mean we’re holding you to impossible standards. The whole team has your back, Michael.”

“I- Thanks.”

“So what if Georgiou’s back, you don’t have to fight to prove yourself.”

 _That has nothing to do with it._ Michael bites back the truth, ready to jump at the first opportunity.

“I know.” Michael answers and Jo seams content with that.

“Besides, Keyla’s worried that you’re going to start putting off cheat meals on Saturdays if you go spartan again.” She takes a bite of the french fry she had been waving at her.

“I’d never miss that.” Michael gives her the most convincing smile she can manage.

They continue with amiable small talk until they’re finished eating, and Michael clutches to her own silence once they part ways.

No one expected her to have fallen in love.

 

 

 


	3. ii b.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the (hind)sight and the feeling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaaa! Finally. I haven't had time to get anything done in well over a month, so excuse the lateness. I've spent the past two days working on this non-stop because it's way WAY overdue. This is un-beta'd, there will be at least a handful of errors that I won't catch until I do. 
> 
> (PSA1: Go watch Hustlers (2019), aka the movie where Constance Wu's character sees JLo's character and they fall in love with each other INSTANTLY. Like, 6 minutes into the movie and it was so FUCKING GAY that I forgot that I had been losing my mind over Portrait of a Lady on Fire for the past hour trying to find local screenings. Also, _what the fuck JLo_ , where is her Oscar? How she look that fine always? Ma'am. Please.
> 
> PSA2: I've been listening to Florence and the Machine and Dessa a lot so this is _SOMETHING_.)

* * *

 

 

Michael had been sitting at her laptop for half an hour, waiting on Philippa’s skype call, delayed even further. She filed her nails, barely glancing at the screen until the notification popped up in the corner.

“What took so long?”

“I couldn’t get the heater started.”  Philippa appeared, bundled in a blanket and quilt in her dimly lit room. Shivering, glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose, as she reached for a mug of tea, steam rising into view.

“It’s almost negative twenty.”

“Where are you again? Moscow? Slovakia?” Michael faked concentration at her hands, frowning at the keyboard. But Philippa could read the curve of her frown too easily. “ _Siberi-_ ”

“ _Michael_.” She had set her drink down, probably something herbal, half-full and sloshing about with the movement. Chamomile, Michael thought, given the time of night for them both. As though the fact that they were still in neighboring time zones could make her more content.

“I don’t get it. If you can’t stand the winter, why go _further north_?”

“Ah, yes. I had forgotten how much you enjoy providing commentary.” Philippa groused, absently playing with the tag on the blanket. 

“I…” Michael hoped to sound apologetic, sincere. She batted her eyelashes, put on her best pout. “I don’t mean it like that.”

And Philippa rolled her eyes, situating on the ceiling. She sighed, louder than the last time, slouched into the cushions and covered her face. “I miss the sunshine. There’s so much snow.”

“Then, don’t go to Prague next year.” Michael shuffled her feet, hunched closer to the screen, with Philippa now so far away. “Your contract is up, isn’t it?”

“Yes?” Philippa’s pause was curious, something playing on the corner of her mouth. Michael knew she’d been had. 

“Spain.” Philippa laughed then. So Michael had persisted. “Or, I can sign a longer contract in Portugal.” 

“Join me.” Michael cleared her throat, broke her steady gaze from the screen, suddenly overwhelmed. She tapped at the edge of the keyboard. “I mean, you’d make it more bearable.”

“Alright. Tell me about Spain.” Philippa leaned back in her seat, tucked her hands into her hoodie pocket. She crooked her head, hair falling across her face. 

“Valencia is right on the beach. Ros Casares has a solid record.”

“Are… You think we could put up with each other, year round?” Philippa interrupted, suddenly unsure. 

Michael straightened her back, sat up taller in her seat, a sly smile growing on her face. “Oh, you’re asking _me_ that?” 

 

 

  
\\\\\

 

 

  
She’s counting, by the next day of practice, to keep record. 

Five miles she’s run this week, on her own time. Four hours in the weight room, collectively. Three rolls of athletic tape in her gym bag, all in various stages of use. Two pairs of sneakers in her locker. 

One time, that she’s spoken to Philippa for more than a brief hello. One time, only to walk away.

She sets her jaw, tying and retying her left shoe, to adjust for the thickness of a new brace. 

For once, she wants to look up and find Philippa watching her, with something more familiar than bewildered settling on her face. So Michael steals all the moments that she’s trained her attention on everything else. She hoards all the times Philippa’s turned away, checking her watch, jotting something on the whiteboard, talking to Pike. 

It’s so odd that it shakes her, the off-navy of their now matching Boston shirts. It doesn’t fit in with her other memories of them in color. 

The track pants, the loose bun, the crossing of her arms. The lines don’t connect the right dots in her mind. The constellations are different in the same sky, on the other side of the country.

Michael pinches at the collar of her shirt, pulling it away from her throat, feeling too tight for steady emotion. And when she stands, she can’t stop fidgeting. 

She wants to pull Philippa aside, she wants to ask, increasingly desperate. 

_Who did you become, those two years in San Diego?_

She doesn’t hide her hands, when she flexes her fingers, itching to get the ball in her hands, to move. 

_Who are you now, besides a stranger, to only me?_

 

Pike looks on, taking notes while Philippa directs the speed of play, bolstering them through drills that wear out the younger half of the team, before the veterans start to buckle. 

Philippa shakes her head, not satisfied at their performance, “What are you going to do when the push for post-season arrives? Who’s going to set the tone?” 

She motions for Ariam to pass a ball to her, and then her eyes are on Michael. “Come on. You know this one, Michael.” 

 

It’s easy, man to man defense. They’ve run through this so many times before: defend the paint, don’t let your opponent get to the basket. 

Michael shrugs in her jersey, loosening up her muscles. Philippa waits for her, raises an eyebrow, dribbles once. Twice. 

When she starts, it’s a storm breaking, charging forward. And Michael anticipates it all until she suddenly doesn’t. She raises her arms for the shot-fake, thinking she’s in the right, but takes a sharp elbow to the ribs. She’s grunting at the impact, as Philippa maneuvers around her for an easy layup. 

“Sorry, One.” Knuckles tap her hip in apology as she circles around. Philippa’s voice a little softer, just as commanding, lingering at her side. “Run it again.”

 

Philippa continues to know how to push, knows how to frustrate her, how to make her want to work harder. By the end of the drill, she’s spent, taking long steps to slow by her once-captain’s side.  

“I guess you’ve still got it, huh?” Michael finds her voice a touch too hoarse, wiping at her brow. She laughs it off as she ducks her head. 

“I won’t go so quietly.” 

“I’d hope so.” Michael glances up again, to that fire, so evident and obvious if anyone else were to look this time. They all think its new and part of it, part of her presence, feels that way. Forged in a different league after her retirement, with a more difficult role to fill. Michael knows she’s gone through something very few of the other coaches have, as a woman, as a former pro, going in to the NBA as an assistant. 

San Diego took all of her fight and made it sharp. It took all of her calculation and made it less logical, more emotional. Michael can see how Philippa understands the change in their roles; being captain, and her, being coach, puts them at a slightly more even keel.  

Though the balance is so delicate, that they both have to look away after not too long.

 

 

  
///

 

 

  
The clearest way to recovery had been to take the surgery. Michael crutched her way into the hospital, sat and waited on her own, while she and Philippa were still at odds. 

The intake was done, and half an hour later, a nurse dropped by to put the iv in. 

“This might sting a little, hon.” 

Michael nodded, closed her eyes, drifted off. She spent the last of her conscious moments doing her best to keep calm, go over her checklist for recovery. Call coach, schedule PT, call her agent… 

 

  
She woke, the first time, in the haze of lingering anesthesia. She could barely get her eyes open. Everything was too bright, too cold, and much too foreign. She grumbled, trying to shift but finding herself unable to fight her own body’s weight. 

Michael looked to her left, at an empty table, the window with the curtains half-drawn, still a trace of sunlight. 

To her right, Philippa, arms crossed, stern expression etched onto her face even though she had been dozing heavily. Michael hic-coughed, tears beading in the corner of her eye, and she fell back under, with less of a struggle. 

 

  
The second time, she woke to fretting. Philippa on her feet at the doorway, talking to a nurse in hushed tones. 

“Hey, lay off.” Michael’s voice was more of a growl, so she cleared her throat, and that was what got the other woman’s attention. 

“You’re up.” Philippa raised her eyebrows and the nurse used the opportunity to take her leave. 

“Yeah- Help me out here.” Michael squirmed, feeling trapped by the pillow and the blanket, trying to sit upright. Philippa nudged a second pillow behind her for support. “Stop fussing,”

“Oh, _I see now_.” Philippa sat back down at her side, arms crossed as default. “This is why Hugh calls you a menace.”

The world spun for a moment, at the change in altitude, making her forget the sass she had ready to go. Instead, she took the ice water Philippa had procured and drank in silence. Until she had found the words again, picking up the trail of crumbs Philippa laid out for her. “What is this, a peace offering?” 

“ _Michael_ -”

“Cause I thought-”

“We’re not doing this now.”

“Then when, huh?” Michael could taste the copper in the back of her mouth again. “When were you going to let me know-” 

“I’m getting surgery on my shoulder at the end of the month.”

“That doesn’t change any-” And then, Michael knew she had her cornered, she narrowed her eyes. “ _You weren’t going to tell me._ ” 

Philippa glanced to the open door, to the hall at the people passing by.

“Why are you so afraid of me?”

“I’m _not_ , Michael.” She looked at her shoes, at the tiles, at the wall ahead, but not at Michael, who could only see her. “You don’t scare me.”

“You’ve always been a bad liar.” Philippa scoffed at that, but still wouldn’t turn back to make eye contact. “Then why can’t you look at me and tell me the truth?”

 

 

  
///

 

 

  
The Mystics show up in their away blues, filing onto the Tide’s court with a quiet, get-it-done attitude. It’s their home opener, filling the air with anticipation at their first sold out crowd in preseason history. Michael watches Tilly bounce on her feet, trying to get Jo in on her antics, to rile everyone up before they go out. Her plan works in getting the other rookies rowdy, until Pike walks through the door and gives them a direction to channel all of their building energy. Through the pregame speech, Michael glances over to the other side of the room, where Philippa lingers, somehow unobtrusive, as though she doesn’t want to be noticed. 

Soon enough, Michael shakes it out of her head and they march out, the announcer runs through the starting lineups, and the game is underway. 

It’s a slow start, a little too clumsy for Michael’s liking. They’re out of sync, but these are just growing pains, if she has anything to say about it. Two minutes into the second quarter, she deflects a bad Mystics pass on the defensive end. It goes out of bounds, stopping the game with a sharp whistle, and then, “One!” 

She takes pause at the half court line, and it shakes her so much that the blinders fall off, and she sees their setup anew. She turns back to the bench and sees Philippa for the first time. 

Philippa motions for her to come over, dry erase board discarded, sleeves of her shirt rolled halfway to the elbow. Her hair up in a loose ponytail, and Michael lets herself get distracted, for a second. 

“Coach?” 

The corner of Philippa’s mouth quirks at that, gone as quickly as it appears. The focus: Get Tilly opportunities in the paint, keep them off balance, watch their shooting guard. 

They change to a two on one matchup. And Tilly’s confidence grows as the game goes on, spurred by the crowd. Michael makes sure to get her some good looks on the perimeter too, and they take the game with only an ounce of resistance. 

 

She hangs around with Keyla through the post-game interviews, towel draped off her one shoulder, her teammate bumping into the other.

“Not too shabby.”

“You’re acting like this is your first rodeo.” 

“Give me some credit, Kay.” And with another shoulder bump, Keyla runs off, chasing after Tilly to ruffle her feathers. 

 

The media catches up with her sooner than she hoped, and she’s sent to the conference room with an already wound down Ariam following along on her left. Once they reach the table, Philippa is already seated. 

The questions come in typical order, most of them directed at Philippa from the get go. She sits up straighter, commands attention, and answers briefly. She looks so composed under direct fire.

“What was the adjustment like, going from coaching in the NBA to being here, in Boston?”

_How did you prepare for the season? What are your thoughts on team cohesion? With the relatively low draft picks, what is the focus for building up to a championship caliber team?_

And then: “You have a lot of shared history with Michael Burnham. What is it like, coaching with her on the team?”

Philippa pauses, resting her palms on the table. 

“It’s a privilege to be working with her again. She has such a capacity for leadership. I look forward to what the rest of the season will bring.”

The diplomat in her shows, the smile on her face just for the media. She won’t look at Michael, not in the same way Michael tries not to look at her.

 

  
“One, can you hold on for a moment?” 

Michael’s still shuffling her feet on the way out, hoping to go back to her apartment for a bit of respite. She’s planning out a quick meal, recounting errands, thinking about packing for the away games coming up in a few days. 

“I wanted to ask.” Philippa stalls her, reaching at empty air. “Would you come over for dinner?”

She hesitates, giving in faster than she wants. “Let me wrap up, and I’ll be there.” 

 

  
She forgoes a long car ride at Philippa’s side for her own radio silence and mental preparation. Though, the drive is quick, over faster than she can catch her breath, parking across the street from the apartment complex. 

It’s odd, in the dark, to think that this is where Philippa lives, for now. This towering, ten story building. She bothers to look up, then check her watch, because it’s already late, and she shouldn’t. Instead, she takes a deep breath and crosses the road. 

 

In the elevator up to the sixth floor, youth finds her again. Not at all in appearance, with the reflection looking back at Michael as tired as she left it in the locker room. More in the roiling of her gut, the self-contained nerves churning away. 

The doors open with a slight shudder, to the empty hall. 

To the right, the door at the end of the hall. 610. 

“I’m glad you could make it.” 

Michael smiles, past her, at blank walls, minimal furniture, no greenery in sight. 

 

Michael remembers then: Philippa drove her back to her apartment after the surgery. Traffic was bad in San Francisco that afternoon, as usual. 

Philippa’s jaw clenched, her sunglasses had shielded her eyes from everyone and her own reflection in the rearview mirror. Her hair was almost red in the angle of direct light. She was angry, she was hurting. She was so, so determined to get Michael home safe and sound. 

And Michael had wanted for nothing, in between the loopy state that the painkillers had her in, in between the passenger side door and Philippa’s hand itching closer and closer until she had grabbed hold of Michael. 

Until she was holding on to her hand like a lifeline, and Michael clung back, because she could never see herself not doing so. 

 

She looks back, at the pots on the stove, at the countertop with two matching plates and cutlery waiting. She looks back, and can’t find the image of the same woman there that she had been so desperate to preserve.

“When did you move to Boston?”

“Back in December.” Philippa’s tone is casual, nonchalant. And Michael keeps her guard up. “It gets so cold here.”

“And here, I thought you’d gotten used to that kind of climate.”

They go in circles, making idle small talk until the food is ready. 

 

  
And after they eat, Philippa stands, turning her back, starting again. “How was Shanghai?”

“We didn’t reach the championship.” Michael collects their plates, rounding the corner to be at Philippa’s side, by the sink.

“Was that the goal?” She steals a look, something in the corner of her eye that Michael doesn’t catch in time.

Instead, she straightens, bristling. The faucet runs too hot. “How’s your shoulder?” 

“Fine. Your ankle?”

“Fine.”  Philippa puts the plates away when Michael finishes drying them. 

“How do you like Boston?”

“It’s good. We’ve got a good group here.”  Michael takes a step back, wandering around to the living room window. She stares out at the path of streetlights, leading to a small park. “They’re young, but with a little time.”

“The rookies too?” And Michael takes the bait, a little defensive. 

“If Tilly could grow as much as she did the past year, I think they all have potential.” 

There’s a distant laugh in Philippa’s voice, “How you’ve changed…” 

“…I don’t think I’ve changed at all.” 

_I can barely recognize you._  

Philippa’s looking through the cupboard then, pulling out mugs. “What are you doing?” 

“Making tea.”

“Oh, I-” Michael swallows, “I’d better get a move on. It’s late.”

“Okay. Well.”

“Thanks, for dinner.”

“You’re always welcome, One.”

Michael smiles and ducks her head, taking her leave. She fusses with her light jacket, tugs her sleeves over her hands. Once the door clicks shut, she stares across the hall and flexes the tension from her hands. 

 

 

 

///

 

 

 

Something twisted, watching the play happen in real time. The whistle went for a timeout, after the ball bounced out of bounds, elbows were thrown and it was bad. 

Michael saw herself moving before she could start and she was up off the floor, charging away from the bench while the rest of the team had huddled around Coach for instruction. They were down four, no one had fouls left to give, and they were trying to clinch the second playoff spot in the West. 

The refs played fast and loose on calling fouls the whole game, leaning in Detroit’s favor, being on the Shock’s home court. And Michael, on the other hand, had enough. 

“One, go to the bench. Turn around.” 

Michael could count on one hand the amount of times that Philippa took that tone. But it wasn’t enough to redirect her.

“ _Turn around._ ” 

“That turnover was _on Nolan_.” 

“One,” Philippa bodily blocked her path, hands to her wrists, just as Michael pushed her away. “ _Hey_. Look at me, One.” 

“No, they-”

Something in Philippa had reared up, she stood taller than Michael had ever known, shoving her back. 

“ _Michael_ , I need you _here_!” Philippa’s forehead pressed against hers and Michael stopped dead in her tracks. All of her focused energy dropped away, with everyone still bustling around them. Michael felt sheepish for a moment, closing her eyes and huffing, until she melded into Philippa’s hold, thumbs soothing her forearms. 

“You can’t help from the locker room.” The nudge at her temple, insistent. Philippa’s voice calmed even in the storm of it all. 

“ _Right_ , you’re right.” 

Philippa’s palm pressed right above her heart. 

 

 

///

 

 

  
Tuesday arrives in a flurry, a shuffle to the starting lineup to face Indiana at home. Michael watches the team grow more cohesive, in steady steps. They’re not at the right level yet, but it’s too early in the season to hold everyone to such an impossible standard. Michael knows the only way to get there is through work and more time in the fray. She does her best to bring an intensity to practice, with a willpower that has Pike watching curiously, and Philippa taking her energy level as a cue to challenge the team further.

The Fever push them, with a more veteran squad than they’ve faced in previous years. After a struggle on the defensive end, they finish out the game with a close win. 

And then the Tide is off for the first road stretch, to close out the preseason in the northeast. 

 

  
They’re at New York, aiming to make it 3-0, as every team in the East is putting up as much of a fight as they can to stay close in the standings. And some more than others, with Liberty’s coaching staff filled with ex-Shock players. 

The target’s on Michael’s back from the tipoff, a few aggressive screens later, she has to lift herself off the court with effort. Nothing but a personal foul called, she grits her teeth and bears it. She’s full of frustration at the half, taking the break to center herself, ignore the pain blossoming on her ribs. 

When they charge back in for the third quarter, Philippa’s ready to take no prisoners. She leaves her blazer discarded on the back of Chris’ chair, yelling for fouls and winding up the refs to the point where Chris has to reign her in.  

And Michael has to do the same, to keep from catching that energy and taking out her fury in less constructive ways. So she zeroes in on strategy and executes to a ’t’, because she knows, at least she’s in control of that.

At least she can set that kind of example, when her baser instincts are screaming at her to fight.

With two Liberty players fouled out and tempers running high on both ends, Michael’s thankful they edge out the win before the possibility of overtime. She retreats to the locker room when the buzzer goes. The final score is 91-85, the Tide going into the regular season with an unbeaten record. 

 

  
They return to their hotel for the night, for a late dinner that Michael starts to peck at, and then skips for a chance to lie down uninterrupted. There’s a welt on her hip, her ribs are sore. She’s bone bruised and spent, and in no mood when there’s a knock on her door. 

“ _Tilly_ , I- Oh.” Philippa frowns, and Michael lets herself be looked up and down, ready to turn back now. 

“I wanted to check in with you, if that’s alright.” 

“Yes, yeah. Come in.” She steps aside to let Philippa walk past her, watching the other woman as she crosses the room to lean against the armchair. Michael closes the door and returns to her spot on the bed she’s claimed for the night. 

“Are you okay?” Philippa moves to stand by her feet, barely sweeping the ground when Michael lays back, folding her hands over her stomach. It’s almost midnight and her filter is gone, along with her sense of reserve. 

“Fucking Detroit, every time.” She closes her eyes, grumbling. “I’m gonna need some painkillers to go with my coffee.” 

“How about I get you some ice with that too?” 

There’s a shuffling, the creaking of the mattress next to hers. Philippa sighs, and Michael blinks one eye open in her general direction, taking in the shadow of her, the shape of her against the bedside lamp. 

“Why’re you still up?” 

“I wanted to make sure you were in one piece.” 

“Well, I am. I’m here.” Michael huffs, turning her head toward the window, blinds mostly drawn. “ _I’m fine_.”

“You were different today.” She can feel the eyes trained on her.

The sound of traffic from outside keeps going, being in New Jersey, being so close to the city. She’s still waiting on the AC to kick in, for a little bit of white noise to help drown out the din of the highway. 

“Not like you’ve been keeping tabs.”

“I have.” 

There’s a beat of silence and then the vents go, the whir of cold air flooding in. 

“…’s like before, isn’t it. Is what it feels like.” Somewhere, she’s hoping that if she whispers, Philippa won’t think she’s saying anything at all. She turns her head back toward the ceiling, tracing the uneven texture of white paint, the dim of the light. 

“Well, you were right.” Philippa exhales, stature slumping, barely. She crosses her legs at the ankle and leans back on her hands. 

“Now you’re just humoring me.” Michael raises to her elbows, scooting back until she’s resting against the pillows bunched at the headboard. “About what?”

“Many things, One.”

“Don’t leave me hangin’.” 

“You haven’t changed. And I’m just as selfish as I’ve always been.” She’s focusing on the ceiling, picking at the covers. “Should I keep going?”

“Yeah… Tell me.” 

“I’m sorry.” She takes a deep breath, squares her feet on the floor. “I’m sorry for leaving.”

“Third time’s the charm.” Michael isn’t the least bit gracious, but she still feels the sting in her throat when the words come tumbling out. 

Michael can’t tell who flinches first. But Philippa composes immediately, with an answer. 

“That’s why I won’t make any promises.”

“And I won’t ask you to.” Michael clings to her hushed tones, but her voice cracks, betraying her. “ _I won’t beg_.”

“You’ve never done that, Michael.”

“Well, I guess you weren’t looking.”

And Philippa does, this time. Her open palms turn to fists, pushing down on her knees.  

 

  
In the morning, Michael showers and heads down to the lobby before Tilly even shows signs of waking. It’s too early for everyone else, the kitchen staff in the dining area has barely started setting up, but the coffee is already out. 

She pours herself a cup and takes it over to a table by the window, watching the early reds of the sunrise climb over buildings in the distance. 

“‘Morning.” A travel bottle of ibuprofen slides across the table. Philippa watches her in the light. “Is this seat taken?”

Michael shakes her head. She downs two pills with her coffee, watching back in their shared silence. 

Philippa keeps her own mug nestled between her hands, turning her head to the window. She can’t seem to help herself now, tracing the profile of Philippa’s face, already reaching out to touch. 

She rests her hand on Philippa’s forearm, warming. “Thank you.”

Michael swallows hard, but the words come out. “I’ve. I _missed_ you.” And she starts to pull away. 

Philippa reaches back for her, brow furrowed with intent. She turns Michael’s hand over, pathing with the pads of her fingers, down the inside of her forearm, stopping at the pulse point of her wrist, as though to make absolutely sure; she is as alive as the beating, the thudding of her heart in her throat remains an indication. 

Michael holds her breath. The corners of Philippa’s eyes crease, with a smile, with the cant of her chin lowering. She spends too long a moment looking at their hands. 

“I miss you too. More than you know.”

 

 

 

///

 

 

 

It happened quickly, faster than she could comprehend, at the time. She had just arrived home, after a long day of travel from Rio. She had just emptied out the contents of her carry on, gold medal laid out on her coffee table. She had just sat down to check her phone when she got a text from Keyla, flashing on her screen. 

‘ _what happened??_ ’

Following tens of others from her agent, from Coach, from Amanda. 

And a voicemail from Boston’s Coach. 

She hadn’t known either, until she turned on ESPN. She didn’t have a lot of time to pack. 

 

  
Michael flew out to San Francisco for game 5, getting a good seat behind the Fleet bench after pulling a few strings. Some of her former teammates greeted her, but she didn’t move toward Philippa, not in the state of mind she was in. If San Francisco had gotten so far on their own without her.

It was full focus, full drive, not a second to spare. And Michael would not allow herself to interrupt. 

The game had gone as expected; San Francisco was in control, until halftime, when Minnesota had flipped a switched and gotten back on top. It was close, with two games apiece. 

They had tied at 82 in the final minutes, with the Fleet in foul trouble and the Lynx getting possession. The away team went for a three, their guard off balance and falling to the paint. But they get their free throws, and all of them counted. The Fleet lost the ball with 10 seconds on the clock, which turned out to be an easy layup for Minnesota. 

The buzzer went, 87-82, and Minnesota took the 2016 championship. 

And just like that, it was over. 

 

Michael felt her vision go blurry before she could see it, tracking the Fleet players retreating off the floor after handshakes, after saying their final goodbye to Philippa as their teammate. 

The entire crowd got on their feet, applauding the same thing that Michael couldn’t stomach but had to face, either way. 

Philippa sank to the floor at the edge of the bench, heaving a sigh of exhaustion and looking out. 

There were so many things that Michael wanted to give her. She found that she couldn’t give anything, not even time, since it wasn’t her own. Her body took her, down the stands and the steps, navigating around the staff members that didn’t move to stop her. 

She would follow Philippa’s lead, as always. 

Michael sank to the floor on her knees next to her, wiping the tears that had betrayed her by already falling. 

“I’m sorry, Michael.” Philippa looked up at her, eyes dry and red. “You got us here.”

“ _No._ ” Her voice broke, before she knew it, Philippa had pulled her close. "No,"

“They didn’t let me- I wanted you to _stay._ ” 

“ _Philippa_.” Michael forgot about the cameras and let herself feel.

 

 

  
///

 

 

 

Once the team is packed up, they all huddle as a group in the hotel lobby. And when they’re out of seats, the rookies get rowdy enough that the training staff shoos them outside. It isn’t much longer before their bus arrives and the younger players have to load bags, as per loosely quoted ‘tradition’ dictates, grimacing the whole way through. 

Everyone else files on to the bus, settling into the usual seating arrangement, readying for a three hour trip up the coast to Uncasville. 

The last of the stragglers are followed by coaches, ten minutes late.

There are eyes on her, as Philippa comes over, delivering on her promise of a cold pack. She brings a bottle of water and another packet of Tylenol for later. 

Her instinct is to tug on Philippa’s hand but she’s overwhelmed by restraint, feeling the weight of Tilly’s curious gaze in their direction. So she mouths ‘thank you’, and Philippa’s smile reaches her eyes before she moves back to take her seat across the row from Pike. 

She turns to shoot Sylvia a look, eyebrow raised, with something sharp waiting on her tongue. But the younger woman scrambles to pretend she’s been watching her phone the whole time.

Michael balls up her sweatshirt to use as a pillow, propping her legs up along the length of the seats, trying to get a little bit more rest while she still can.

 

“Wake up, sleeping beauty.” The first thing she sees when she opens her eyes is the all too close smirk on Keyla’s face, having leaned over the back of her seat. The bus has stopped and the look on her face grows more devious. “We’re here.”

“Oh, don’t start with that.” Michael makes a face back up at her and takes the sweater from behind her head. She tosses it at Jo, who goes on snickering loudly from two seats away. 

They jostle each other until they’re ushered off the bus by Ariam, who has gotten so used to the antics that she doesn’t even blink twice. 

The team stops at the court first, for a quick shoot around, a look at game video, and then they all gather to get lunch. 

And Michael forgets to worry, laughing along to whatever jokes Tilly’s telling. With Keyla at her left and Jo to her’s, all in a line on one side of the table at the restaurant. 

 

The break in activity leaves Michael vulnerable, and Keyla waylays her in the hall, hooking an arm around hers and dragging her to the elevator. 

“Let’s go out.” She states, with finality, as the doors close and Michael watches their tandem reflections.  

“ _How many_ years have we been back here, and you still don’t know that there’s nothing to do in Uncasville?”

Michael perches her sunglasses higher, shooting Keyla a long glance. But the other woman artfully ignores her. Like that’s just what she gets for spending the past two years side by side.

“Relax, Burnham. We’ll wander.”

 

They pick a direction and start off without a path, walking on the side of the road until they’ve hit a trail along the river. Then, suddenly, when they’re surrounding by brush and trees, Michael catches on. 

“What?” She sounds snappy, without meaning it. But the looks from Keyla feel more like scrutiny than curiosity.

“Nothing, I’m just thinking…” She goes off, no tangent in sight, bumping Michael’s shoulder and leaving her behind as she walks faster. 

“ _Keyla_.” Michael picks up her stride as well, sidling up to match Keyla’s pace and elbow at her side.

“Alright, shit.” She takes a deep breath. “Okay.” 

“So, you gonna keep on going without a point or what?” 

“It’s just, we all thought you’d be happy with her back in the picture. Even Jo said—” Keyla stops herself, biting her tongue, parsing the way Michael’s brow furrows and she stops walking.

“What did Jo say?” She mocks inquisitiveness, growing even sharper and cutting, finding she _does_ mean it, this time. “You think it’s easy like that?” 

They stand in the middle of the dirt path, staring out at nothing in particular. 

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s just politics.” Michael shakes her head, takes as deep a breath as she can. She can’t let herself get so wound up again. “That’s how the league is.” 

“I’m not talking about basketball, Michael. I’m talking about- You have ten years.”

“Yeah, ten years. And we still can’t talk to each other.” She shrugs a shoulder, bouncing on her feet, trying to school her face by staying in constant motion. 

“ _Michael._ ”

“No, nope. I’m- I’m walking back now, Kay.” She pauses for a beat, “I don’t want to get lost out here.”

 

 

///

 

 

She forgot what they said, what they talked about over dinner when the game had ended. She remembered gathering herself, watching Philippa follow suit. And she slipped into a different mood without knowing it.

Philippa drove her back, pulled up to the hotel lot, parking her car in the back just as the mist turned to a drizzle. They stepped out in sync, and Michael let herself be walked to the side entrance. 

“Well.” Michael smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes and she couldn’t look up from her feet. 

“Well.” Philippa hid her own hands in her jacket, so unlike her that Michael cleared her throat to stifle the noise welling up. “You’re off to Shanghai, aren’t you?”

“‘m flying out tomorrow morning.” Michael cleared her throat again, with the shrug of her shoulders. “You’re, uh.”

“I’ll be on my own. I think it’s time for me to take a break. I’ll get a start on coaching once things settle.”

“Right. Gotta keep busy somehow.” 

“I know, I know.” Philippa reached for her hand, took it so gently that Michael was worried Philippa thought she might shatter. Philippa smoothed her thumb over the ridge of Michael’s knuckles. “Take care of yourself, be happy.”  

Philippa reached to cup her face with her other hand and Michael shut her eyes tight, forced herself to not lean into it. 

The words were there; she had them, held them. She could have said them and that could have changed everything. But fear had beat her to the punch and felt just as sharp. 

_Please_ and _Stay_ and _It’s you, Philippa_. 

She swallowed it up and bit her tongue so hard, she wasn’t sure if she could taste copper or salt. 

“I want you to be happy.” Philippa echoed herself, quieter still. 

Michael’s hands balled into fists, gripping at the back of Philippa’s sweater. She buried her head in the nook of Philippa’s shoulder, “You- You too.” 

And when Philippa had stepped away, sudden as the air got cold between them, Michael knew she had to pry herself, her emotions from this. 

Philippa walked away from her and she didn’t look back. Michael couldn’t stop watching. 

 

 

Hours later, in the unwanted light of day, she waited for her flight at LAX. 

She could still feel the pressure of Philippa’s palm to her chest, pushing her back.

Michael shut her eyes and dove into the patterns behind her eyelids.

 

 

  
///

 

 

 

That night, she doesn’t sleep. It takes hours to gather herself, all the loose ends she’s pulled out from frustration. By the morning, she knows she’s run out of time to reassemble. 

Keyla holds back, as Michael chooses to sit alone, casting looks her way across the room. 

Only Tilly braves the distance and the icy facade to set her plate across from Michael’s at the table.

“Anyone sitting here?” She doesn’t wait for a nod of acknowledgement either, pulling out the seat for herself. “ _Good_.”

And even though they eat breakfast in silence, with much restraint on Tilly’s end, she lets the tension out of her posture.

“We don’t ever have to talk. Just let me be here.” Tilly makes a point of meeting her eye, as Michael drinks her coffee. 

“Thanks.”

And Tilly doesn’t leave her side until they’re getting ready in the visiting team locker room. Michael takes out her earbuds only when Coach Pike walks in, and then, he steps back to let Philippa take the floor.

 

“Back in San Francisco and while coaching with San Diego, we would find a theme collectively, something to focus on and examine, as a team. And I would like to introduce this concept here.”

“Chris and I, along with the training staff, have a question: What do we truly know about loyalty?” Philippa offers, eyes trained on Michael. “Is it an act or a mindset?”

She paces in front of the lockers. And Michael follows, picks up where she leads off. It’s a lot like college again, listening to a guest lecture, captivated by an eloquent speaker. Philippa’s magnanimous presence, eyes bright, mouth curved. Imperceptibly playful, except to Michael. She’s always in stride, staying behind her but anticipating two steps ahead. 

“It’s an emotional choice that we make, and one that we have to commit to, every day.” 

She stops at the epicenter of the room, turning on her heel so she can make eye contact with everyone at least once. And when she stops the rotation, she settles on Michael. Who knows that this is a rallying call, a request for trust, and permission from Michael, from her team. 

“To go on a journey, trusting, no matter where it may lead. To support one another, while collectively pushing the bounds.”

Michael sits taller in her seat, hands twitching in her lap. 

“What we ask today, is to have faith in the process. To approach change as a guiding force. To grow, as a group, through what challenges may come.”

Philippa pauses, poignant and poised, until her voice cracks slightly as she continues. 

“And to not allow fear to cause you to turn your back on those you want to succeed most.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
